


i saw goody bigfoot with the devil

by Anonymous



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Boarding School, Cleveland Monsters, Columbus Blue Jackets, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 00:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13178697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Look. You spent the last week obsessing over this thing and I just. I just want you to know that you don't need to. Bigfoot is already here, okay. Bigfoot," Blake placed his hand over Milano's chest and resisted the urge to squeeze his highly defined tit. "Is in your heart. If you believe him to be real, he is. And that's all that matters.""Nah," Milano said. "I wanna see for myself."





	i saw goody bigfoot with the devil

**Author's Note:**

> my first piece of writing of the year, and first hockey fic since 2016 and it's about two guys looking for bigfoot. this was originally gonna be sonny&pld but pld's pov was annoying to write ngl so i switched it to blake because i am a (c)lem '15-16 stan at heart. besides, blake and sonny actually did go to school together in michigan, although this fic is set in a fictional boarding school.... somewhere in the state
> 
> man, i hope that the spooky parts are actually spooky.
> 
> content: an instance of vomiting (can possibly trigger emetophobia), misogynistic language, farts, vague implication of zach werenski having a harem of boys, and evil spirits

Blake makes it three days before he calls Werenski who waits until the last ring to pick up because he's an asshole like that.

"I'm a good person, right?" Blake asks.

"Not this again," Werenski says.

"I _am,_ right?" Blake presses.

"Yes, Blake. You're good. You're so good that we bottle up your farts to freshen up our dorms because they smell like lavender and freshly mowed grass. We'd call you Saint Blake, if you weren't, you know, alive." If Werenski were a word, he would be _exasperation._ Noun. A feeling of intense irritation or annoyance. His headshot would be the pictured example. The runner-up word: _hyperbole._

"Then why is my karma in the low negatives? After everything I've done."

After watching one episode of _The Good Place,_ Blake works very hard at being good. Not for his own salvation though because he's not sure he believes in that kind of thing, but because he likes the concept of an invisible green number floating above his head. He picks up litter. He replaces the toilet paper in the bathroom and throws out the cardboard rolls. He volunteers at animal shelters on the weekends. And he has a very respectable A- in Honors Pre-Calc.

His roommate makes him want to smash all of that to bits with a sledgehammer. Which, you know, whatever. He's not perfect. And everybody has off days. What Blake doesn't like is that he's had consecutive off days. All because of Sonny Milano and his stupid show.

According to Wikipedia, the _Finding Bigfoot_ crew has yet to get substantial evidence that the cryptid exists. It's on its ninth season. Blake knows this exceptionally well because Milano has been streaming the whole thing non-stop for the past several days, his mind gone for anything else. The human lump on the futon is now a staple of their dorm.

At first, Blake thought it was an innocent phase, but yesterday Milano emailed him a five-page essay on how Bigfoot is an invasive species. He's half-convinced to pay Milano for his history papers because it was incredibly not bad even though nearly all Milano's sources came from Bigfoot sightings dot com. Morally, Blake's conflicted. And not only that, Milano's got him racing back after class to claim the TV.

Which has some pros. Torts’ been praising his speed on the ice and Blake will admit his stamina has improved, but he can do without the stress, okay?

"Karma isn't real," Werenski says. "Is this about Milano again?"

"Arghdflak." Blake's protest about karma's existence gets strangled in his throat. "Don't you again me, you don't have to deal with the guy."

Werenski sighs so intensely, he loses a part of his soul. "You're not even dealing with him. You just call me. What did he do this time?"

"Bigfoot."

Werenski takes a short silence. "He did Bigfoot?"

"No. _Finding Bigfoot._ The show. He's been watching that crap for I don't know how long, but it's too long. And he took over the 'screen for it too. My Xbox mates probably already held a vigil for me. Wer, I swear if I have to hear 'sasquatch' once more time, my brain will leak out of my ears like liquified gum and I'll die for real." He jogs up the stairs of his building in threes and swings around the corner to his dorm. "It's not even a word to me anymore."

"Uh. Tell him to stop then?"

"Wow, Werenski." Blake praises dryly. "How would I be without your genius brain—I already did that, dumbass."

He tucks his phone between his cheek and shoulder and pulls out his keys. The door is weird and he always has to use two hands and the effort adds to his daily frustration. Grumbling, Blake pushes the door open and his whole body seizes up at the sight that welcomes him back. "Oi! How'd you get here so fast? Your class is on the other side of campus!"

"Bigfoot waits for no one," Milano says from under his comforter, his voice muffled. "And I never left."

"W-what, you've been here this whole time?"

"Uh, that's what I said."

Blake sees red at this point. All his fighting words battle in his throat and die there with a choke. He throws his phone at the human lump and tackles it off the futon in one fluid motion. "Fuck you!"

He wraps his arms around what he thinks is Milano's head, but is actually the guy's legs he finds out a second later, receiving a kick to the face. Blake pulls away the comforter and aims for Milano's real head this time, barely missing as his roommate ducks to the side.

"What the hell is your problem?!" Milano has the gall to ask.

At the risk of sounding like a total cliché, Blake screams, "You're my problem!"

They get tangled up on the floor, knocking notebooks off the desk as they grapple each other.

"Milano, you're ruining my _uniform!_ "

"You started it! I’m gonna piss on your sweater vest, Siebenaler!"

"No!"

They tangle up on the floor, knocking notebooks off the desk as they grapple each other. Milano takes an elbow to the nose. Blake suffers a bite on the arm (which, seriously? A bite? What is he, a teething infant?).

"Your B.O. is reaching hazmat suit levels. I swear, Milano, I'm calling the Department of Health on your ass!"

He smacks Milano on the side of his face and tries to pull himself up, but Milano pushes him down again.

"Tell them this for me!" He mounts Blake's face with 20-some pounds of ass and blasts a cloud so funky, it travels back in time to win the Grammy Award for Best Disco Song. Blake headbutts him in the nuts and tries not to think about it. He uses the momentum to throw Milano off to the side and wheezes, blinking away tears from his eyes.

After his stomach stops trying to somersault its way out, Blake turns to find Milano curled up on the floor. He pumps a fist up in the air in victory until he remembers that Milano is _still here._

"You are not getting the TV again!" Blake slams into Milano and heaves the guy onto his shoulder, smacking the ass so hard Blake's sure his handprint is molded into the fleshy butt-cheek.

Milano howls and squirms under his arm and it becomes very much like the time in Florida when he handled an alligator that decided it wanted to chomp his head off at the zoo. Milano is no alligator, of course. Blake preservers. He heads for the door and grabs Milano's shower kit on the way.

"This is for your own good," he says, then promptly ignores Milano's protests and insults for the sake of his blood pressure.

Blake kicks one of the bathrooms' door open, throws his cursed roommate in along with the shower kit and books it. Barely beating him to the room, Blake slams the door shut in Milano's face and turns the lock. "It is MY turn for the TV. Go take a shower! I'll let you back in when you've earned it."

"Fuck you, Siebenaler!"

"No! Fuck _you._ "

Blake slides down against the door and listens for footsteps heading away. There goes his karma. Or maybe not. He's helping somebody with his personal hygiene. That totally counts. He spots his phone under the TV stand and army crawls his way to it, too out of breath for any more strenuous activity like walking. The screen is free of scratches and cracks, thank God, but Werenski's hung up. He calls again.

Werenski doesn't take as long to pick up this time.

"So, what's this about Milano and Bigfoot? Did he finally meet the man of his dreams? Didn't think his type was bear, but to each his own, I guess."

Blake hears the leer in the other guy's voice and bends his back in revolt. "Andy?!"

"The man of the hour, yeah," Andy says smugly. "So, I hear you overdosed on estrogen. Want a stomach pump for that?"

"Shut the fuck up. What happened to Werenski?"

"Zacho saw your name, screamed 'hot potato!', then threw his phone at me. Nearly took my head off. Must have been some bitchfest before I got here."

Blake rolls his eyes almost to the point of spraining them. "Ha ha ha. I just wanted my TV back. And my piece of mind. And roommate too, I guess. Do you know how _boring_ Milano gets when he only has one topic in his arsenal for conversations? I'm fully within my rights to bitch."

"Uh huh. Yeah. Yeah. Yes. Of course, honey. You're right. I totally agree with you."

"Oh, piss off. You're not supposed to say them all at a time." He gets up from the floor and picks up Milano's comforter. Where the hell is that remote?

"That was me purposefully showing how little my fucks are. Tiny. Like the size of an electron. Leave Milano alone? He's just trying to find some truth in the world."

Blake throws the pillows out of the way. "Why the hell isn't anybody on my side?"

"Well, Sieb, you kinda make it hard to. Besides, Sonny's… sunny, you know? With a 'u'."

"You're not living with him. Besides, the show is rigged. They're never going to find Bigfoot. That's why they're still on air. Anyway, what do I do? He's in the shower now, but once I let him in, he might bite me if I wrestle him off the futon again."

"Kinky," Andy says. "Uhh, just wait 'til he catches up on the latest season? He'll be bored waiting for the new episode and drop it, you get your TV back, and Tortilla will bust his nuts over your newly found patience. These are good things."

"No way that's gonna work. Bigfoot's all he thinks about. Sometimes, I just wanna smash the TV just so he won't use it." He kicks the futon, muttering a soft apology after. If only the remote had a more stable relationship with the plane of this universe. "These guys spent the last _six_ years trying to hunt down Bigfoot. I admire their dedication, but can they give up already? For my sake."

"Hey, there's an idea."

"What idea?"

Andy groans. "Do everyone a favor, Sieber, and get some self-awareness. Make Milano give up on the whole sasquatch thing."

Blake pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's not that simple." He gives up on the search, climbs up to his bunk and flops down onto the mattress like a marionette that got its strings cut.

"Uh, you haven't even started to try? Quitter."

"It's-it's _Milano._ " Blake stammers indignantly. "I don't know how his cogs turn. I don't even know what his favorite color is."

"It's fucking November. You've been roommates for nearly four months now. Be better? Also, whoever told you that favorite colors are the basis of knowing somebody is a bitchass liar. Mine changes every day. Who the hell knows what it is now?"

"Well, you're one special snowflake, aren't you?" Blake snaps. He sighs. "Sorry. How am I supposed to make him quit Bigfoot? Without. You know. Killing him or something." He rolls up his sleeve to look at the bite mark Milano left on his arm. His eye twitches.

"Figure it out yourself. And since he's in the shower, why the hell are you talking to me?"

"I can't find the remote," Blake grumbles, feeling infantilized.

"How are you still alive? Ugh, whatever. Werenski owes me a blowie and I'd prefer to not delay it listening to your whiny voice."

"Ugh, gross. TMI, Anderson." Blake looks at the screen in disgust, his face flushed, and finds that Andy's already hung up. He throws his phone into the abyss of his disarrayed duvet and pulls his pillow from under his head, squeezing it until his fingers are white.

Blake is not the type to get off on his friends. That is _not_ what's happening here. There are extraneous variables. He envies Andy a little bit, but not because it's _Werenski,_ more the fact that he's hooking with someone that's not his hand. Without any privacy in the dorm, Blake's been rendezvousing with himself in the showers and it's not hot.

He's been at half-mast since roughhousing with Milano and chalks it up to roughhousing. Not exclusively with Milano. And it's not like he's got anything else to do. Milano probably stuffed the remote in his pants. He should've checked.

Blake shoves a hand into his sweats and tries to coax Junior to full-mast, but his mind accidentally slips to _Werenski_ blowing _Anderson_ and then Werenski blowing _him._ He imagines having to look down to see Werenski’s lizard eyes that are too close together staring up at him and deflates very quickly after that. He keeps his hand in his briefs though and plays with it. Not to turn himself on again—that ship just sailed—but because his hand's already there and he's bored and doesn't feel like fishing out his phone from the abyss of his bed.

Blake props his legs up against the wall. He wiggles his toes. He stares at his feet and contemplates.

They're big, right?

 

 

At the end of the week, Andy becomes half-right. Milano catches up on the show and gets bored waiting for the next episode, but the search for Bigfoot doesn't end.

"Did you know that Michigan is ranked 8th by state for Bigfoot sightings? There's been over 200 reports."

"I am on the balcony!" Blake curses his teammates in his head. He switches weapons and wiggles the right stick to adjust the camera for better aim. A swarm of zombies is climbing up the stairs for him and he's alone and almost out of ammo and mad. "Balcony! Bal-co-ny!"

"Oscoda County has the most sightings with 10. Ugh, I'm so jealous."

"If I die, it's all over for you!!"

Which is how their exchanges normally go now. They've come to a truce now that Blake is free to kill Nazi zombies whenever he wants, but he's still subjected to Milano's spiels every once in a while. He forgets that it used to piss him off until Milano seizes his soul with a "HOLY SHIT!"

"ADAKFJ!" Blake jumps backwards in his chair, flailing his arms, and crashes onto the floor. Groaning in pain, he stays there, his legs up against the table, all of his energy sapped from essay writing to get up right away. His head throbs where he'd hit it on the trashcan on the way down.

"What," he says pathetically.

"BIGFOOT SIGHTING!" Milano charges into the room, not hesitating for a single step, the door rattling from the impact of the slam. "IN RIVERFRONT PARK BEHIND US! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?!"

Blake isn't sure if this is a sign confirming God's existence or denying it, but he smacks his hands together and sends up a prayer anyway.

"I'M SO CLOSE!!" Milano raves.

 

"Is it too late to switch roommates? Or get a single room?" Blake presses a pop can against his head, combatting the sauna that is Werenski's room. He slumps in the office chair, leisurely pushing off the floor to spin.

"Siebs, you damn well know there are no single rooms left in fucking November."

"Wer, switch with me."

"No. I'll never give up PL as a roomie," says Werenski.

"Aw. Thanks, babe." PL presses pause and turns to Werenski, blowing him a kiss before resuming his game. "We all know you want Andy, but I appreciate the sentiment."

Werenski mimes catching the kiss with his hand and puts it away in his shorts' pocket. Blake shivers at the gay activity. How can Werenski and Dubois be so _chill_ together? He doesn't get it.

"Siebs, if you're gonna complain about Milano. _Again._ I'm banning you from this room."

"Okay, but hear me out. Milano. Is finding Bigfoot. _Again._ " Blake clasps his hands together, rolling the pop can back and forth on his chest. "Please. I'm losing my mind," he pleads.

"Just tell him to chill," Werenski supplies, unhelpfully once again.

"I already did that."

"Are you sure?"

Blake flashes back to yesterday.

 

_"Look. You spent the last week obsessing over this thing and I just. I just want you to know that you don't need to. Bigfoot is already here, okay. Bigfoot," Blake placed his hand over Milano's chest and resisted the urge to squeeze his highly defined tit. "Is in your heart. If you believe him to be real, he is. And that's all that matters."_

_"Nah," Milano said. "I wanna see for myself."_

 

"Yes, I'm sure," he answers.

"Welp. Guess you're losing your mind, then."

"But _Wer,_ " Blake whines.

"And Room 212A visiting privileges. I'm so tired of your lame ass." Werenski grabs the bedpost with one hand and swings his body off the top bunk in some parkour move. He lands in a crouch on the floor with his hand flat on the floor. Werenski lifts his head, piercing Blake with his beady eyes so intensely that for a brief second Blake thinks Werenski is _cool._

He stalks towards Blake like some lion/panther/leopard/puma/cheetah, his hair blown backwards by a rage wind. Blake gulps, setting the generic brand of Coke aside—it's gotten warm anyway tragically—and scoots backwards.

"H-hey, only God can forsake me!" he protests, wagging a finger.

"God? Bitch, I  _am_  God. Of this room."

"I hope you’re speaking from a polytheistic point of view," PL chimes in from his little corner. "I’d like to be God of my own room too."

The supernatural wind dissipates as Werenski turns to PL, his voice light. "Of course, I am. Of course, you are." The wind returns as Werenski feats his eyes on Blake who is _not_ cowering in the chair. He swears he's not.

Werenski pushes the door open, flat against the wall and turns back. "Either get out yourself or I dump your ass."

"Come on. Be a little more forgiving." Blake braces his feet on opposite sides of the door frame. He pushes back against Werenski's shove. "I have more leg strength than you do upper body, Wer. This is not a battle you will win!" He grips the armrests.

The pressure on the chair disappears and Blake has a second to sigh in relief before Werenski leans over and puts him in a chokehold.

"Hey hey hey! Hey now. Torts will kick you off the team if you kill me." Blake smacks the offending arm in rapid fire.

"It'll be worth it," Werenski hisses into his ear. Blake squirms.

"I can't be that annoying, can I?" he asks.

"Hey, PL! What’s more annoying: Milano’s Bigfoot obsession or Siebenaler complaining about Milano’s Bigfoot obsession?"

"Well, since I’m playing _Bastion_ right now, I have a personal bias against that, but if you ask me another time, I think I’d say Siebs complaining about Biscuits."

"Lukey!" Blake smacks his chest with one hand, the other still on Werenski's arm. "My heart!"

He pulls Werenski's arm lower on his neck, off his Adam's apple. Jesus, when did Werenski get _beefy?_ Maybe, Blake's wrong after all. Werenski's arm strength can rival his legs. Guess he needs to add more push-ups and pull-ups to his morning routine.

"Is he hogging the TV like last time?" PL asks, thumbing away at his controller.

Blake hears the tell-tale clicks and marvels at PL's multi-tasking ability. "Well, no. He's spending more of his time shopping for gear—"

"Then what's the problem?"

He pinches Werenski's inner elbow and twists it. Ignoring Werenski's _"Ow ow ow!"_ , Blake spins and shoves him off. He pushes against the door frame, the chair rolling to the center of the room.

"He actually believes there's a Bigfoot in the woods behind us. It's all he ever thinks about. Man, I just want normal Milano back."

"Sounds like you've got a crush on Biscuits." PL hums.

"I- I do _not_ have a crush on Bisc- fuck this, I'm not calling him that. I'm not crushing on Milano." Blake hops off the chair and wraps his arms around PL's head, blinding him to the screen.

"Everything makes sense now," Werenski says in wonder.

Blake pivots. "No, it doesn't!" he says, pointing a finger at the offending boy. "Why is everybody in this room so stupid?"

PL jumps onto his back and Blake stumbles, extending his arms for balance.

"You're just bummed out that Biscuits isn't paying attention to you. Your heart screams, 'It's me! I'm the Bigfoot you're looking for. I was your Bigfoot all along!' C'était un coup de foudre. Tu veux un bec de lui mais il est tombé en amour avec Bigfoot. Oh, je peux vomir!" PL pinches his cheeks like a distant aunt.

"Tais-toi! Tais-toi, tais-toi!" Blake screams the only French he knows—well, outside of _voulez-vous coucher avec_ _moi ce soir_ _,_ anyway. "I don't know what you just said, but I don't like it—stop laughing, Werenski!" He pinches the sliver of skin behind PL's knee. "Take that, ass!"

PL howls, inviting a thud on the wall and a "SHUT UP, ASSHOLES!" from the adjacent room. He slides off Blake's back. "Fuck your karma, man! You play dirty."

"Self-defense," Blake spits.

"What're you defending?!"

"My honor!"

"Hey!"

The three stooges face the entrance. Josh Anderson's voice isn't very commanding, but the width of his shoulders is. Blake's felt that a couple of times during 3-on-3s in practice when Andy would slam him against the boards. Always a rough time. _The Tallest Man, The Broadest Shoulders,_ a voice in Blake's mind supplies and he can feel each capital letter, but he has no idea where it's coming from. He crosses his arms reflexively.

"Andy!" Werenski greets brightly.

"Zacho!" Andy's smile is equally bright.

From the corner of his eye, Blake sees PL mime gagging.

"I'm getting some noise complaints about you guys so, uh, for everyone's sake, put a pillow on it," Andy continues.

Blake scoffs. "Whatever. I'm leaving anyway."

PL's still sprawled on the floor and kicks Blake's ass as he makes his way out. "Good riddance."

Blake double flips him off.

"Good luck on your gay awakening," Andy quips, patting his shoulder. "Zacho texted me all about it."

"Werenski!"

 

 

Milano is tinkering away when Blake gets back from class the next day. Instead of getting a headlight _("50 dollars?!")_ , his roommate hot-glues several flashlights to his headband _(“More light this time! I won’t miss anything”)_ , lost in his thoughts. Blake slumps against the door, his presence not known yet.

He'd woken up this morning with PL's words echoing in his head and it took him until fifth period to admit that _yes, Milano is cute._ In that weird, earnest way of his. By seventh period, he'd conceded that he wants to run his fingers through Milano's curls and that Milano has nice hands. In a non-hockey way. The adrenaline he felt with Milano below him, then above him. When he sunk his teeth into Blake's arm. Blake rolls up his sleeve and inspects his skin. The bite mark has faded away by now, his arm pale as ever, but he still remembers where it was. He thumbs the area and it doesn't hurt. Like it never happened. He lifts his arm to his mouth, biting softly where Milano did.

Blake flushes and he _feels_ it, feels the blood rushing to his face so hot that it's like he's in Werenski and PL's room again. Whatever. _Whatever._ This is— Ugh. He doesn't have the mental capacity right now to protest. For what? Against what? He's not sure. It's all stupid. He drops his arm to his side.

"Hey! Milano."

Milano's head snaps up and Blake freezes.

"Hey, man. What's up?"

Blake's only gotten as far as _Milano_ in his head, his mouth too fast again. "Uh. Go to Culver's with me. I can cover it. This time, I guess." _There we go._ Blake sees the green number increase above his head and mentally pats himself on the back.

"Nah. Sorry Siebs, I wanna finish prep for my Bigfoot search tonight."

Blake's getting over this unwanted crush immediately, he decides. "You're. Out tonight?" he asks dumbly.

Milano doesn't seem to notice him missing a beat—the thing in Blake's stomach uncoils in relief. "Yeah, the whole weekend! I gotta search all of Riverfront, y'know."

No. Blake doesn't know. He doesn't want to know. He loosens the tie around his neck, entertaining the thought of choking himself before he throws it onto his desk. "Oh, cool. I'm doing nothing for the weekend."

"Good for you!" Milano says and he sounds _earnest_ too, unlike the sarcastic way the words would've sounded coming out of Blake's mouth. Good for you! Good for you good for you! Annoying.

Hours later, his laptop screen is split in two: the left side playing Netflix, the right displaying a work cited page. Blake pretends his five-minute break didn't break five minutes half an hour ago, watching Princess Caroline trying to seduce what is very clearly three kids in a trench coat.

"DONE!"

He jolts in his chair, hands gripping the edge of the desk as a wave of déjà vu splashes down over him. "Jeez, Milano. Do you have any ounce of chill in your body?"

Blake places a hand over his chest like it's going to help with his heart palpitations. Milano stands in the middle of the room with his arms up, triumphant. His shirt is a size too small, stretching over his body, his nipples poking out like little anthills. Blake snaps his eyes up to Milano's face, willing his blush away, and finds goggles.

"I'm so ready for Bigfoot!" Milano beams at him, looking like a cheap knock-off Benjamin Franklin or whatever with his powdered wig-esque flashlight headband. "But is Bigfoot ready for me?"

 _Blake_ isn't ready for him. He lets his eyes wander again, Milano's face being too much for him. The other boy is donning camouflage cargo pants which is only the second weirdest thing. Blake sees some jumbo Slim Jim sticks in the bottom pocket, a camera bag hanging off Milano's shoulder and a—

"Are you seriously bringing your stick?”

"Yeah! What if Bigfoot is hostile?" Milano taps his temple with a finger. "Vigilance, my friend! There can't be too much of it."

Bigfoot or not, that’s just _sacrilege_. Sticks are crazy expensive and Milano’s just okay with it as weapon? Blake would get it if it were a baseball bat, but it’s _not._ Blake’s glad he’s rethinking this stupid crush. Why does Milano have to look like _that_ anyway? He scoffs, crossing his arms. "I guess giving it a splinter would be really effective."

Milano's face goes :O. "Or I can use it as a javelin," he muses.

"Oi, are you an idiot? Sticks are expensive."

"Oh, it's fine. I'll be fine.” Milano waves a hand and Blake frowns. “Alright! I'm going now."

"Kay,” Blake says, wheeling back to his desk.

"Right now, I'm leaving."

"Alright."

"Out the door I go."

"Later."

"Don't wait up for me."

Blake snorts. "I won't."

He hears the slam of the door and the tell-tale creak five seconds later. "Are you chickening out?" he asks.

"Yes. Go with me."

Blake spins around in his chair to see Milano clutching his stick in the mouth of the door. His knuckles are white.

"No," he says.

"Please?"

"No."

"Come on, Siebs. This is important!"

"Then go."

"But I'm scared."

"Then don't go."

"But it's important! Go with me."

"It's 11:30, Milano."

"So? You said you have nothing planned tomorrow."

"No, I said I plan to _do_ nothing tomorrow."

"Come on. Please? Blake."

 

 

There are so many trees that they hide the crescent moon in the sky without any help from leaves. It’s pitch back down on the ground outside of where his flashlight and Milano’s halo land.

Blake grinds his teeth down, but he can't stop them from clacking in the cold. The flashlight shakes in his hand and the circle of light on the trees inches around like a caterpillar. He curses himself. Man, all it took was Milano saying his name— _How can you be so_ easy _,_ Blake wonders—and here he is, the perfect human rendition of a fucking vibrator frolicking in the woods.

After this, he's going to fish out his debit card, bury himself in a cocoon of blankets and order a coat. Black. With a fur-trimmed hood. He'll match with the cute girl in his ceramics class and they'll finally have something to talk about other than the firing process. Surely, conversations with her would be more enlightening.

Blake can’t see an ending to Milano’s weird obsession, can’t figure out a way to make himself Milano’s new obsession and it seems too much work anyway without just kissing the guy. _That_ may or may not implode Blake’s world and he rather not fuck up the season and anything else. But in a nonconsequential world though, he would love to just smack his lips against Milano’s. The guy’s an idiot. Blake wants him to feel it.

What’s so special about Milano anyway?! He’s funny? Nice? Doesn’t get mad whenever Blake swipes his food? He blinks. Yeah, that’s pretty special. Blake did that once with PL and almost got a fork in his hand. Can be very smart whenever he wants to be? Blake witnessed that with the Bigfoot essay. The heart wants what it wants, he guesses. Ugh.

"Sieber."

Blake stops in his tracks and turns around. "Yeah?"

Milano shines a light up his face. "I do think there's a squatch in these woods," he says.

Blake immediately recognizes it as a line from _Finding Bigfoot_ and sighs. "I can't stand you. How long are we gonna be out here?"

"The post said that it was by the creek. Which isn't far, I think."

"You think?" Blake jabs. The wind picks up and whips him. He stumbles, nearly falls to the ground. Blake grits his teeth and digs his heels. He needs to gain some more pounds if the wind can get him as easily as this. He shrinks back into his jacket and blinks fast to rewet his eyes. His face feels taut and dry as a skull. Like the wind stripped all the moisture from his face. When he opens his eyes, he’s alone.

Milano’s halo is gone. It and Milano himself are gone.

"Hey, where'd you go? Milano? Did you get blown away or something?"

He turns around, tripping over his feet as he shines the flashlight into the trees. Nothing. Just branches and leaves.

"Milano? Milano?! This isn't funny." Blake pushes the branches aside as he wades through the grove of trees. Where the hell is this kid?

He flinches back with a hiss. The twig is a knife in the cold. Blake wipes the cut with the back of his hand, but still feels the blood trickling down his face. Whatever, the wind will dry it later anyway. He tilts his head. Now that he's not moving, Blake can tell that nothing else is moving too. The forest is silent. And it shouldn't be. All he hears is the faint flutter of his arm hairs sticking up.

"Sonny?" he repeats in a lower volume, but it still smacks the air like a puck on plexiglass. The base of his head tingles and Blake swears it's like somebody's watching him. He whips around. "Okay, this isn’t funny, Milano. Milano?!"

He scans the trees again, and when he gets no results, examines the ground with his flashlight, looking for ditches and ravines that he somehow missed before. Nothing. No Milano. He's just gone. Disappeared without a trace like he wasn’t even here in the first place. Blake swears he felt eyes.

Was it Bigfoot? Did it snatch him? No. No way. If his little brother can stomp around the house with his size five feet, then Blake would've definitely heard Bigfoot if it were real. A shiver runs down Blake’s spine, uninvited and he scowls, slapping the back of his shoulder. Maybe, it isn’t a somebody that’s watching him. Maybe, it is—

Blake shakes his head, aborting the thought. _No._ He's not going there. He likes to think himself as reasonably superstitious, owning a pair of lucky socks just like any other player, but the supernatural can of spooks is not something he wants to poke his stick at. He’s over that. It's just cold. Of course, he's gonna get tingles.

They're not here for ghosts. They're here for Bigfoot. Well, Milano is. He's supposed to be. Blake's never yielding to Milano's whims ever again.

He rubs his eyes and begins another search. He's got to be missing something. The wind surges like a wave against him again and swims around his body inside his jacket. Blake curls inward and holds the flashlight close to his chest, shielding his eyes from the fluttering leaves with his other hand. He presses forward. Once he finds Milano, he's kicking his ass. Hopefully, that happens before he dies from hypothermia.

His phone chimes, nearly shocking his skeleton out of his body. He exhales shakily and pulls it out, the light blinding him for a second as it engulfs the darkness. Blake blinks, adjusting his eyes.

**_AHL Authentic_ ** _  
Last Chance! Team-Signed Banner Auction…_

His shoulders fall. It's just a notification. He scoffs. He’s all scared for nothing. Blake swipes left to delete the email and goes to turn off the phone, but something beats him to it. A shadowy, bony hand creeps from behind his shoulder, its fingers walking down in the air. A single claw taps his phone, dispersing darkness that rises from the screen and swallows Blake up again.

His teeth clack together. He stops breathing. Blake knows it's irrational, but when he was younger, he used to freeze and hold his breath in the car whenever his parents drive by a cemetery. In the backseat, he'd duck under the window, pressing against the door like a shield. Like if he's not moving and they can't hear him or see him, then the ghosts of the graves can't get him.

The hand cups his shoulder.

Blake books it.

He leaps over a root and trips over another, but doesn't stop. Barely registering the dirt coating his mouth. Cold, relentless fear pumps through his veins. His legs strain to get him anywhere but here. Until he's miles away from whatever that _THING— THAT THING?! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT THING?!_

If he's screaming, he can't hear it. His drumming heartbeat takes up in his ears. He beats away the branches with his flashlight, covering his face with the other arm. FUCK this. FUCK Milano. FUCK everything. He runs the entire earth's circumference before his feet meet the trimmed turf of the soccer field. His legs want to collapse, but he can't, he _can't._ Blake pushes forward until he sees the light twinkling by the dorms.

He crashes into one of the lamp posts. Holy shit. His knees knock against each other as he struggles to hold himself up. But he's alive. He's alive, right? Blake smacks his chest, feels for his shoulders as he tries to swallow down air. Alive, he's alive. His arms are skinned to hell, scratches and blood everywhere and he feels everything. All the stinging pain from his arms, cheeks, the deep pain in his legs pulsing like another heartbeat. He chokes on it. He cups his mouth, but the lurch is too strong. Blake bucks over and vomits up his dinner, lunch, and breakfast into the bushes, the acid threatening to burn him up like a cigarette. And when that's done, he dry heaves until he catches his heart in his throat.

 

 

"And _that_ ," Blake concludes grimly, "was how my night went. Milano didn't come back last night or this morning."

Werenski is utterly unimpressed. He pinches his nose as he gripes at Blake. "How. Can you be so imbecilic as to lose. Your roommate."

"Bringing out the five-dollar words now? What are you, a SAT tutor?" Blake scoffs. He tightens up his crossed arms. "I didn't lose him. It's not like I wasn't paying attention. He just wasn't there anymore. God, were you not listening during the hand part? There was a fucking hand! Maybe it took him! Can we talk about that?"

Werenski’s entire body moves with his eye roll. Blake would throw hands, but he needs help finding Milano in the woods. He’s not going back there alone like some B-Horror movie protag.

“Somehow, I’m more inclined to believe that Milano fell in a ditch somewhere than that he was snatched by an unembodied hand,” Werenski says.

“Maybe you were on drugs,” PL supplies unhelpfully. “Cafeteria food can be a trip, man.”

Blake shrieks _. “We all ate the cafeteria food!”_

“Woah, dude.”

“Hey, now!”

Both Werenski and PL step back. Well, PL scoots back. In his chair.

Blake straightens his back and blinks. He looks down at his hands, his fingers curled like claws. He curls them further into fists and drops his hands.

“Am I hysterical?” he asks, looking up at his friends, his voice shaking at the end. Blake grabs at his chest and sits back down on the chair. He pushes the fabric of his shirt between his knuckles. He clears his throat.

“I saw it, okay?” Blake says in a softer voice. “I saw the hand _and_ it was there.”

“Okay,” PL says, curled up in his chair with his hands out, patting the air like Blake’s a tiger he needs to tame. And Blake’s _not._ He’s being normal, he’s not on fucking drugs and he just needs them to believe it so they can hurry up and save Milano.

“Okay,” PL continues. “You’re not crazy.”

Fuck, it’s no _I believe you_ , but Blake takes it. “We have to find him.”

“W-w-w-we? _We?_ Siebs, if this hand can snatch up Milano, who’s a 6’2” 208-pound dude by the way, without making a sound like _you_ said, it’s better if the cops manage this one. They’re literally paid to do this shit.”

“They only do that for missing persons and Milano hasn’t been gone long enough, I checked,” Blake says. “And I’m not waiting. It’s—” He sighs. “It’s _scary_ in the woods, okay? It gets so dark, you don’t even know. _We_ have to find him. Because with me, I know where he was last. Near the creek, I think I can figure it out. But please don’t make me go out alone.”

Blake squirms in the chair, his arms wrapped around his front. He’s never been so scared before and God, this sounds pathetic, but he doesn’t even know whether or not to invest in a nightlight. If it’s better to see what’s in the dark than to not know anything about it. He can’t tell.

“This is fucking nuts,” Werenski says. “I swear, Siebenaler, if we go out there and Ashton Kutcher comes out with his camera crew, I will turn the episode into a snuff film.”

“Punk’d was discontinued after 2012, you grandpa,” Blake jabs. “But thanks.”

PL spins in his chair. “How are we fighting a shadow hand?” he asks the ceiling.

Blake shrugs.

Werenski claps his hands. “Alright, men. Let’s open up Wikipedia.”

**Author's Note:**

> C'était un coup de foudre. Tu veux un bec de lui mais il est tombé en amour avec Bigfoot. Oh, je peux vomir! - It was love at first sight. You want a kiss from him but he fell in love with Bigfoot instead. Oh, I can puke.
> 
> Tais-toi - shut up.
> 
> i took french for four years in high school, i'm pretty sure they're right ^^


End file.
